Cookery Escapades
by PinkCandy-x
Summary: Arthur can't cook, and Francis is sick of it. After enlisting him into a cookery school, who, in the end, will end up as the better chef? Rated T for swearing, although may go up to M.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia!**

* * *

_14th February 2013_

"...And for the main, braised beef with horseradish." Placing the warmed plates down with a flourish, Arthur sat in the chair besides his boyfriend, taking a sip of red wine.

"Mon cher... if this is as good as your starter, I will enjoy this very much." Smirking, Arthur clinked his glass with Francis'.

"Cheers, frog. And don't worry, as it's better than any of the tripe _you've_ ever cooked, you'll enjoy it very much." Blue eyes glinting, Francis smiled lazily before picking up a gleaming fork.

"We'll see."

Taking a bite of his own dish, Arthur sat back and hummed contently. For Valentine's day, Francis had challenged Arthur to create an edible three course dinner, and of course, Arthur had accepted with a sniping, "my food is always edible, frog, Gordon Ramsay comes to _me _for tips." The starter had been smoked salmon drizzled with lemon, velvety avocado and goats cheese complete with little vegetable canapés. Although none of it was actually _cooked_ per se, it was still an achievement, especially as Francis grudgingly admitted it was tasty. But _this_, Arthur thought happily as he twirled his fork in the stew, _this_ braised beef was awe-inspiring. He would enjoy hearing Francis' celebratory words on _this_. Stabbing a carrot before placing it in his mouth, Arthur chuckled, unaware of the Frenchman staring at him.

"Mon cher?"

"What?"

"I hate to tell you this, but..."

"Spit it out, frog."

"The meat ruins the sauce."

"What? Why?"

"Because it's lamb, mon cher, not beef."

_Bollocks_!

* * *

_14th February 2013 (evening)_

Looking at the dessert, Francis stared at Arthur incredulously.

"This actually looks good, mon petit lapin. What is it?" Snorting, Arthur sat down, placing the can of whipped cream in front of Francis.

"I'm surprised you don't know," picking up a spoon, Arthur dug into the chocolate pot, "it's one of _your_ little desserts, actually. French. Little chocolate pots with coffee and cream."

"Hm. I hope you haven't ruined another dish for me, Arthur. My poor heart wouldn't be able to handle it!"

"Eat," Arthur ordered, forcing the spoon into Francis' mouth. Retracting the spoon, Arthur watched his face for any clues, nearly panicked when he saw Francis' eyes watering. "What!? What's happening? Francis, are you-"

"Wine!" Taking a long guzzle of the red, Francis put the glass down and faced Arthur, eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to _kill me_!? Is this how you plan to do it!?"

"Francis, what _are_-"

"I've never tasted anything so disgustingly bitter in my entire life, mon cher! Did you confuse sugar with _salt_!?"

"No! And nonsense! It can't be _that _bad!" Picking up the spoon, Arthur ate some of the dessert himself. Inwardly cursing, he fought a grimace before frowning at Francis, forcing himself to take another bite. "See, perfectly good," he lied.

* * *

_1st March 2013_

"Francis, I'm so sorry, I didn't- Oh Christ, get out the way!" Pushing the Frenchman, Arthur proceeded to vomit into the toilet.

"Y-you. You done this to me, you- Move!" Pulling Arthur away, Francis followed suit, throwing up the contents of his stomach. "You, damn _rosbif_! Y-you-" Throwing up again, Arthur rubbed his lovers back as he attempt not to dry-heave.

"I'm, I'm-" Forcing Francis away again, Arthur claimed the toilet, water coming to his dull eyes.

"It's the last time, Arthur! The last time I _ever _let you cook dinner!"

* * *

_15th March 2013_

Fougasse bread. A French bread that, if the baker so desired, could have additions of herbs, cheeses and olives. However, in order to add these, the raw dough had to of doubled in size so it could be pounded down to have the additions added. Usually, in a warm place, the dough would have doubled within an hour. But, not in this case.

"It's been _three hours_. _Three hours_ and you still haven't risen!" Pointing at the dough in exasperation, Arthur's cheeks flushed as he shrieked lightly. "_One _hour, dough, _one_! That's how long you're supposed to take! I've put you on the AGA, on the counter _besides _the AGA, in the sunlight, _and_ in the damn airing cupboard. Do you realise how unhygienic I find that? You unleavened bread. You sat on the floor next to the hot water tank for a bloody hour and still, nothing! It's _warm_, for goodness sake! _Warm_! Rise, you dough, _rise_!" Eye-balling the dough, Arthur sighed and threw his arms up when there was no change. Pinching his nose before turning back to the recipe book, the blond reread the steps again, cursing afterwards.

"I know you're just playing a trick on me, dough. After all, I done everything perfectly. I waited for the 'yeast to froth up, for bubbles to appear on the surface,' and I even put you in a 'large bowl lined with oil.' But, wait – the yeast sort of frothed, and three bubbles count as a few bubbles, right? And, and when does oil become too much or too little oil? Was I suppose to line the bowl so you could just about see smears of grease, or so you could see it dripping from all sides? Oh, for heavens sake!" Shouting out, Arthur took the pale dough from it's home, commenting, "you would have been good with butter, you flat bread," and tossing it into the bin, he stalked out of the kitchen, muttering, "Francis can just stick with fucking Kingsmill."

* * *

_16th April 2013_

Biting into a churro, Arthur smiled. '_These taste _great!' Taking a plate of them out to Francis, Arthur settled himself onto the couch, leaning into Francis as the other watched BBC News. Holding a churro out to the fellow blond, Arthur smiled fondly.

"Here, love, I made you a sweet. Antonio gave me the recipe." Raising a brow, Francis looked at the long, blackened churro, afraid to ask-

"And what, mon lapin, is it?

"A churro, of course! What else could it be? Now try it, I dipped it in cinnamon just for you!"

"I'm not trying that." Scowling, Arthur pushed the churro to Francis' face.

"And why not? I worked hard on this!"

"It's black."

"So it may be a little burnt, but that-"

Standing up, Francis sighed before rifling through his pockets. Pulling out a thin leaflet, he dropped it into Arthur's lap.

"I love you darling, very much, but your 'cooking' makes me want to commit suicide sometimes. Please, consider this," and, walking out of the living room, Arthur finally looked down at the paper.

Cookery school.

* * *

**And so begins a new multi-chaptered FrUk fic! I also have another one (a more serious one) up my sleeve. Let me know if you're interested in the idea. Thanks for reading!**


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